


When I Get You Alone

by troiing



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, wow look a sex montage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen's much too domestic for Nikola's tastes.  Small steps, you guys - small steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Less Domestic, More Dirty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PotofCoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotofCoffee/gifts).



> 7500 words of straight-up smut. You've been warned.

There’s nothing unusual about Nikola entering without so much as a knock; she barely pays him the light of day. Her brows arch upward to allow for a brief view of him from her position behind the desk, and she takes in his smirk with a snort before dropping her gaze back down to the papers on her desk. He watches her with a smirk, meandering idly towards her.

“What do you want Nikola?” she asks after he’s been unusually quiet for a few moments.

“Nothing in particular,” he replies vaguely, causing her to arch a single brow again, but without looking away from her work.

“You do realize that I’m in the middle of something.”

“Aren’t you always,” he scoffs, striding over to play with various items on her desk, picking them up and replacing them again. She frowns, focusing on the scratch of her pen on paper. “You know, Helen, you’ve changed quite a lot since college… but you’re still disturbingly domestic.”

“I’m not domestic,” she retorts flatly, still not looking at him.

“She says as she sits demurely behind her desk,” he drawls back. God, but Helen does too much paperwork. Honestly, with the technology available to her, you’d think it wouldn’t be necessary to keep so many hard copies around.

Helen snorts. “And I’m most certainly not demure.” The paperwork must be getting to her head, if she’s so willing to banter pointlessly.

He cants his head at her, trailing his fingertips across the surface of the desk as he circles it to stand closer to her. “Aren’t you?”

“Do you know nothing about me?” she scoffs in return, finally lifting her head to pin him with a glare.

“Plenty!” he retorts, following it with his toothiest grin.

“Of course,” she mutters, scowling briefly at him as she lowers her gaze again. But he’s moved behind her now, and suddenly he’s working his way around the back of her chair to massage her shoulders. Her eyes widen and every muscle in her body stiffens. “Nikola.”

“Come now; never had a massage?” Surprise gone, she slowly relaxes under his touch. “That’s better,” he cajoles, but massages are rather the last thing on his mind.

He proves this by leaning down to kiss her neck.

“What are you doing?” she demands, but her body doesn’t tense again.

“Come on, Helen—what’s a little fun, hmm?” he cajoles, giving her chin a nudge and nibbling at her jaw. His hand, it’s gliding down her chest, and she inhales sharply.

“Nikola, anyone could—”

“I already locked the door,” he interrupts, grinning against her skin while he reaches down to tug at the zipper on the side of her skirt.

“I—why you!” she retorts, shoving at his hand.

“You don’t really want to do that, do you?”

“You are a presumptuous, asinine—”

“—pain in the ass, cheeky bastard, insert other insults of choice here,” he murmurs flippantly into her ear while working at the zipper again. “Spare me the diatribe.” And then, nibbling her earlobe: “try to be a little less domestic.”

“And a little more what?”

“Dirty, of course.”

“Sex behind a desk is dirty?” she challenges, but he’s worked his hand past the high waist of her skirt, and the way he’s wiggling around in the tight space to get a good angle on her is enough in and of itself to make her gasp.

“For you, I dare say it is,” he returns in the same flippant tone, stroking a finger along her folds, pushing her deftly open and teasing the same fingertip across her clit.

And with the usual perfect timing comes a knock on the door.

“Oh, god.” An undertone, followed by the most level “Who is it?” Helen can muster.

“It’s Will… are you okay?” Hesitation.

She breathes, head tilted against the back of her chair as Nikola stubbornly leans over her.

“Fine.” Level enough, and apparently loudly enough to be heard.

“Are you—?”

“ _Later,_ Will!” she calls, biting back a groan while Nikola slides his finger against her once again, mouth trained on that favorite spot just below her jaw.

When there’s no more response, she breathes a little more freely—or as freely as Nikola’s attentions dictate she might.

“I’m going to kill you,” she growls.

Nikola only chuckles. “Before or after we’re done here?”

“N—” like she’s trying to say something, but gives up. “After.” She bucks her hips at him just a little, sliding unceremoniously forward in the chair. “Stop teasing.”

He’s holding back, tracing a finger tauntingly around her clit. “If I’m going to die when I finish with you, I’d like to extend my life as long as possible,” he supplies judiciously, playing with her hair when he turns the attentions of his mouth back to her ear. Whatever she uses in the shower is fantastic—fills his nose as he lifts those dark locks of hers and drops them off over one shoulder, tugging her sideways and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“If you take too long, I’ll kill you before you’re done,” she huffs, instinctively twitching her hips away from him this time when he teases her clit.

“So it’s a matter, then, of precisely _when_ I’m willing to die,” he murmurs into her ear before recommencing his nibbling of the lobe.

“I’ll give you a reprieve if you do this properly,” she suggests. Anything for satisfaction, even if it’s all a game.

“Interesting,” he says while he moves his arm again, twining fingers in her hair and giving a tug. Helen doesn’t quite manage to stifle a guttural sound as her head tilts with the sharp snag. “Oh. Somebody likes hair-pulling,” he teases into her ear, breath leading her into a shiver.

Note to self: always pull Helen’s hair, if only for the sake of hearing that moan.

“Nikola.”

“You know,” he sighs thoughtfully against the side of her head, “I always thought you were a little more… patient.” Still, the way he’s working his hand around in her skirt now, you’d think he was rewarding her.

“I really am—going to kill you.”

“Come now, Helen; you’re breaking my concentration,” he scolds, nipping sharply at her ear. But he’s already working his free hand down into her shirt when she starts that dreadful hissing at him. “I always thought there was some sort of wild animal in your genetic makeup. Do those tortoise fellows hiss? I hear they live a very long time. And jellyfish, some of those are supposed to be immortal too…”

“You’re dead.” There’s much too much practiced finesse to the way he bypasses her bra.

“Oh, I’d very much like to see you try to arrange that,” he chuckles, turning the attentions of his mouth back to her neck while he teases her nipple.

“Damnit, Nik—”

“God, I love it when you’re a mess. Stop arguing; you’re almost there, aren’t you?” A groan answers him as she throws her head back as far as she’s able in the chair, back arching a little, imperiling her position as her ass slides forward again against the smooth leather, but making her gasp again as his fingers ride hard into her when she moves. “Uh-uh, Helen,” he murmurs, tisking quietly, letting his lips brush her neck while he speaks. “I said”—he drags his hand out of her shirt, working fingers into her hair again—“you’re almost there, aren’t you?” And when he pulls sharply, her entire body rattles with his attentions.

“You’re really good… at multi-tasking, aren’t you?”

“It’s a point of pride.”

“What isn’t?” 

Another note to self: there is no getting Helen off without getting towards it yourself. Sure, she’s hot every day of the week, but when her lips part like that? Or is it the very precise furrow of her brow he likes best, or the tense curve of her neck? Well, what’s not to like? He snakes his hand back out of her skirt, but not without making it a point to trace a hot, soaked finger across her thigh while wiggling around in there.

“Are you always this obnoxious about getting women off?” she finally pants, eyes flickering open as she twists her head around to examine him—Nikola and that awful grin of his.

“Only when they’re hot.” He frowns thoughtfully, and she gives him a momentary, dubious glance. “Sadly, they’re usually not.”

“Save the flattery for someone who cares,” she growls. She’s rather more of a mind to continue this her way than to let him keep talking. So she stretches back into her own horribly awkward position while he’s busy teasing her hair. He bemusedly allows her to work her hand past his waistband, with her shoulder and elbow bent at angles that can’t be comfortable.

Mistake. Maybe.

She fumbles intentionally down his length, tented trousers and all, and takes a firm hold of him to massage the tip of his cock while he grunts. “Come here,” is a growl, accompanied by the faintest tightening of her hand. _Oh._

“Turning the tables, are we?” he asks, grin returning as he rounds to the front of her chair. She arches a brow at him before standing to shove him down into her seat. “ _Well, well._ ”

“Shut up.”

She digs him out of his pants, and he cants his stupid, proud little grin at her. She rolls her eyes before leaning forward to replace her thumb with her tongue, leaving a shine of saliva from base to tip before hiking the pencil skirt all the way up her thighs and pushing her panties out of the way.

“My god, Helen. You were on the way to a fantastic blowjob,” he complains half-heartedly.

“Do you ever stop talking,” is much more statement than question, he thinks. If he’s honest, it’s a little unclear, considering the way her tone fades off into a guttural moan as she settles onto him. At any rate, he’s rather pleased with the change of pace—not to say he doesn’t like to hear her beg, but there’s a whole different level of sexy to a Helen Magnus who knows what she wants and how to get it.

“I try not to. I quite like the sound of my voice.”

She can’t be quite as annoyed as she’d like to seem because, with her hands on the back of the chair, she’s lifting herself up and dropping down again, all movement and all fire.

“Oh, you’re definitely not domestic.”

“Glad you agree.”

“Not now anyway. Who knows what tomorrow holds?”

She’s almost at the end of him, and those thighs of hers never fail her. He digs his fingers into her skin while she angles her hips, bearing down hard and looking for some traction along her front wall.

Still fired-up from Helen’s previous orgasm, he thinks about whatever he can to slow the process down. In a hundred and whatever years, there’s plenty of that. Like the damned pigeons. The cravat going out of style. How much vampires actually sort of sucked, absolutely no puns intended. Her eyes are on the ceiling, and the way her neck’s extended makes it impossible not to reach for the buttons of her rumpled blouse, to reveal all the lines from her upturned chin down to her breasts.

That awful bottle of wine from her cellar had seemed so promising.

_That_ was depressing enough to delay things forever, were it anyone but Helen with her straining thighs, rocketing up and slamming down again, taking in all of him, hot as day. Thank God her bra’s a front-clasping one.

That bastard Edison. Badly brewed tea. All buzz-kills on any day of the week—all enough to prolong her short breaths, exhales cut off on contact with his hips like every time knocks the breath out of her, her curved neck, her bouncing breasts. God damn that body.

He bunches her skirt up the rest of the way, this time digging his fingertips into her ass, further displacing black silk. Oh, she’d so wanted someone to see these. But what’s more important is that, by whatever stroke of luck, the panties tease her clit, and it’s hard to tell if the next sound is a groan or a whimper. Her fingers dig into the back of the chair.

A century of other men buried deep inside of her. He’s stubborn enough not to let that get him down too terribly. Everybody’s got a history, after all.

“How _did_ James get by with all of this?” he teases on that note, keeping one hand on her ass, pinching a nipple between two fingers of the other.

“You clearly never knew James in the bedroom.” Everything broken up in that heavy rhythm, accompanied by the squeak of her chair.

“Oh? And what was old Druitt like?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Funny.”

He keeps coming back to the bad wine. Problem is, bad wine makes him think of better wine, which makes him think, while playing a game of tag between her nipple and his tongue (his tongue’s “It” and, between the up-and-down of her body and the triple-timed movement of her breasts, her nipple’s a master of evasive maneuvers, but it doesn’t keep her from offering him little noises of pleasure even at the apex of her repeated journey to the goddamned moon and back), that like a good wine, Helen’s really only gotten better with age. Lovely little bottles full of aged, tart nectar. Hmm. Helen’s chin, the angles of her collarbones, and the rhythmic pull of her shoulders, the ripple of her upper arms as she uses them to aid her movements, home to bittersweet ambrosia all her own.

Well, well.

Oh, and she’s no longer afraid of being heard. Judging by the breath that has now become a string of unearthly noises, anyway. He chuckles privately into her skin, shifting her panties again while he gives the hair fallen over her shoulder a tug with his free hand, fingers twining through her curls. Oh, he should have known better than that though, after the way she reacted earlier—that next heavenly moan makes him come hard into her while she inhales a pitchy gasp. Every inch of her tenses, from the fingers digging in to the back of the chair to the muscles in her back and legs underneath his still-searching fingertips.

“ _Nikola_ ,” she moans belatedly, body half caving into itself as she quivers under the weight of her orgasm.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to her heaving breast.

A hand leaves the back of the chair, landing heavily on his shoulder. “You are absolutely full of yourself.”

“Hard not to be when _you’re_ full of me, isn’t it?” he teases in a matter-of-fact tone, fingers sliding across her back, over the bunched fabric at her waist, down her buttocks and the back of her thigh, all of her damp with sweat. He doesn’t mention how hard it is to log more than a minute or so in the saddle when it’s Helen and she’s looking like _that._

“My god.” She’s pulling away, and he watches the confused movements of her body with absolute delight while she struggles to contain herself. Oh yeah: there’s definitely something gratifying about making this woman come.

“You like it, anyway. Keep your skirts up and we can—”

“Oh, get out of my office.”

“Surely you don’t mean that,” he coaxes, stroking a finger down her cleavage, her busy diaphragm.

Her kiss is easily as hot and wet as the rest of her—utterly sloppy and absolutely revolting on an incredibly gratuitous level, he thinks. He chuckles into her mouth, breaking away enough to suck on her lower lip, hard.

“Hnn,” she tries with her lip captured between his teeth, tilting her brow against his to work her way out of his hold. “Come to my bedroom tonight and there won’t be any skirts to worry about.”

“I kinda like them.”

“We can negotiate.”

“I like it when you negotiate.”

“Nikola?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Put yourself together and do something useful. Like… find Will,” she says, like the last whatever has been an annoying, but necessary little fieldtrip into the land of sexual satisfaction. Helen’s not a very good liar.

“I resent that.”

“Resent it all you want, so long as you’re in my room at eleven.”

* * *

Thinking about it, Nikola’s not all that complicated. Well, thinking about it, no human really is. Humans are all about gratification, right? Okay, so the ways people find gratification differ greatly, but Nikola’s pretty sure there’s not an individual on the planet who couldn’t find something perfect in _this._ Licking sweat off of Helen Magnus’ chest and stomach, kissing brine off her neck and thighs, he’d be thinking about a lot more than just bad wine if he hadn’t already thrown everything he had into pounding her into her mattress with her legs locked tight around his waist and her fingers tangled in his hair. Any time now he’s sure he’ll shoot up like a damn spring toy. For now, she rides his fingers while he sucks hard on her breast. 

It’s three o’clock in the morning and Nikola’s giving himself cotton-mouth sucking little bruises into view all over Helen’s body. Sure, he wouldn’t get bragging rights or anything, but part of him wishes there were somebody else around to see these things, proof of his hard work. It’s cool enough she could wear turtlenecks for days on end without arousing suspicion right now.

Maybe he can get away with hickying her hand.

It’s o-three-thirty, and Nikola’s remembering just how little Helen usually sleeps. No problem. There are no problems in the world staring down Helen’s arched back, holding tight to her while she works her clit with two wet fingers, hand curling into the sheets a little more tightly with every thrust, every tip off-balance. There are no problems with Helen coming again and again, boiling hot over his cock, his fingers, her fingers, his tongue. And there are absolutely no problems when, for her grand finale, she locks her lips over him and swallows, breathing in sharply through her nose while he orgasms.

What halfwit called it a blow-job when there’s so much of the opposite going on? Hell, the way Helen’s mouth suctions around him, his hips rocking himself up into her, it needs a much better name.

She’s panting, crawling up his body, and she doesn’t even make it off to the side before collapsing squarely on top of him. “I’m done,” she mutters, and as he traces a thumb up the side of her breast, she says: “No. I’m really done.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t mind if I lay here.”

“You can lay wherever you want if you save the last orgasm for me.”

“You were up. I felt bad for you.”

“I’m sure that’s the case.”

“Don’t be cocky.”

“That’s a wonderful choice of vocabulary, but I’ll remind you that I’m rolling in your cum; I’ll be however I want to be. Helen?”

Funny—he never took her for a drooler. Her hair fanned out, clinging to his body and hers, he spends all of about thirty seconds trying to gather it up before falling back into the pillows himself, dozing off exhaustedly with Helen’s breasts shoved into his stomach and her cheek against his sternum, the rest of her splayed haphazardly in the bedding.

Not so haphazardly when he wakes though, feeling oddly light. He’s breathing properly now, anyway, still on his back and—well, well. He has to wonder if she ever actually woke up, or merely rolled off of him. Expecting the former, but hoping the latter (he’d so hate to have to rescind those claims at domesticity), he rises up on an elbow to grin down at her, stark naked in her deliciously soiled sheets. Mouth, a loose hint of a smile; body, relaxed; breath, deep. She stirs and sighs at his movement in the bed, and her eyelids flutter, but don’t quite open. He brushes his fingers across her breast experimentally before allowing his thumb to trace a gentle pattern across her nipple.

“Mmm… Nik,” she half sighs, floating pleasantly at the edge of consciousness. Her head tilts sideways, freeing the space behind her ear to his lips.

“Shh, shh. Don’t speak.”

“Why not?” she drawls, voice hoarse from sleep, lashes still fluttering subtly though her eyes remain closed.

“Because it’s not a gentle awakening if you’re already awake,” he murmurs against her skin.

“Ah,” she says.

Or perhaps she doesn’t say—it’s enough akin to another sigh that he suckles her earlobe and whispers “Good girl,” before moving his kisses down to her neck, still caressing her breast. His lips move down to her chest, and he teases the other nipple with his tongue. Her legs roll open to his freed hand, but his knees hold them with just enough clearance for his fingers. The pressure of her own tells him that, even half asleep, she is impatient. He stifles a chuckle and eases his tongue into her navel while trailing his fingers, feather-light, against her already-damp folds. He slips one finger, then two, easily inside of her, dragging out more wet heat with a steady, calculated rhythm that ceases precisely when her hips, too, begin to find it.

“Oh no. Not yet,” he whispers to her hip while his wet fingers slide under her and his body moves upward, gripping her buttock and nuzzling her breast out of the way to lick the fold of skin underneath at the same time.

All those little places where a feathery touch sends fire through her belly? He’s searching them out, finding them, dragging his wet, flat tongue across them, tracing them with his teeth. He licks that fold below her breasts, suckles at the skin over her floating ribs, breathes kisses into the soft flesh of her inner arm, and while his fingers dig just a little deeper into her ass, her chin tilts and her breast rises higher, faster. Partly for her sake, partly for his, his fingers glide past her labia again, brush tantalizingly over her clit, and land again on her breast. Again, his attention is on her pert nipples, but only long enough to move a knee between her legs and allow her to ride him with a few sleepy rocks of her hips.

And then his mouth is moving down her body again, and he’s at home between her legs, sliding fingers inside of her again while her knees bend, playing with swollen pink folds, nibbling her thigh, easing her gently open with slick, hot fingers and pushing his tongue inside of her. The tip of his tongue slides up to meet her clit and his fingers curve into her, pressed into her front wall, simultaneously. All the breath leaves her in an ‘oh’. Now he lets her find and follow his rhythm—slow and lazy compared to the previous night. No, she’s no longer desperate for that peak of pleasure; his fingers move easily in and out of her and his tongue gently teases her clit until the crest of each movement is accompanied by a tiny whimper. Then, lips closed tight, he sucks on the little bundle of nerves until her body tenses with her hips still elevated.

He rides out her orgasm between her legs before crawling up her body again, grinning at her when her eyelids finally flutter open.

“You could come every morning, you know.”

“Or I could just stay every night,” he suggests with a shrug, placing his hand experimentally near her mouth, tugging at her lip with a still-wet finger.

She surprises him by parting her lips and moving her head, taking two fingers into her mouth and sucking her own wetness off of him. “Now you’re dreaming,” she says pointedly when she draws away, but her tongue flicks out to lick cum off his knuckles, to suckle it off the joint at his palm.

“It was worth a try though, wasn’t it?” he asks with a grin, quickly clearing his throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to—what’s the phrase all the young chaps are using these days—oh right: _jerk off._ ”

“Have fun,” she encourages in contented amusement as he works his way out of the bed, looking for his clothes. Sure, he could borrow her bathroom, but he knows when to stick around and when to excuse himself, and now is definitely time to run off and let Helen bask for a while. Until the reality of the problem of getting those sheets to the laundry sinks in, anyway.

“Oh, nowhere near as much as you.”

“How dreadfully unfortunate. Come back soon.”

“Per hotel regulations, all wakeup calls should be set by midnight,” he replies in a chipper tone.

“Hmm,” is just recognizable as a laugh when she drops her head into the pillows and closes her eyes again, leaving Nikola to dress and dismiss himself.


	2. This is Your Complimentary Wake-up Call...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Helen takes Nikola's "hotel regulations" comment seriously, and Nikola delivers. More than once.

He thinks it’s a joke, at first, but when he glances up from the little note card in front of him, Helen’s already turned heel and run. No coy looks or remarks, just a message: _5am wakeup call?_ Oh, it can’t be a joke if she hasn’t stuck around to tease him. He gazes after her with his head tilted, grinning toothily and wishing she’d bothered to glance at him for even a moment. He could use a good gloat of any kind over this.

Save it for the morning, he decides—but the morning proves to have its own challenges.

It’s easy enough to get into Helen’s room. She doesn’t keep the door locked, despite the wide variety of folk roaming these halls, and he’s quite stealthy when he wants to be. The problem is, Helen Magnus in all her Victorian glory is in her damned nightclothes huddled up under the blankets like Christmas in the USSR, and last he checked, she sleeps pretty lightly.

But Nikola Tesla is always up for a challenge, and he tiptoes his way over to the bed and crosses his arms to examine her like she’s a piece of malfunctioning weaponry. The comforter’s not as bad as he thought, he supposes, tucked under one arm as it is, and nighties means no undies, right? God, he hopes so. Really, the last thing he needs is three layers of obstacles to get through, all on top of getting into the room and her bed without being too disruptive too soon.

Can’t succeed if you don’t try, he supposes, and sighing inwardly, he lifts her arm, stroking her palm with a thumb in the hopes that a sensual touch will keep her quiet. Now the blanket… Honestly, he’s not only a genius, magnetized vampire, but a magician; forget parlor-tricks.

A little bit of careful inspection, and he’s determined that there’s definitely no bra under there (though all those buttons and the arm crossed across her chest will be an awful pain), and the bottoms are loose enough to cause no trouble at all. Maybe Helen’s not as silly as she seems.

Watching her face in the dim light, leaning in, plucking at the drawstrings, he works her waist free before crawling over her to breathe against her neck, pressing damp kisses gently below her jaw. Blessed be—there’s a distinct lack of undergarments down there. The fact that she sleeps on her side in that silly pillow-hugging position of hers isn’t a problem at all: his fingertips float across her backside while he reaches down from behind to gently finger what he can access of her, tickling her folds and stubbornly licking her throat, waiting for some kind of reaction.

She moans. And then, although—or maybe _because_ —she is still asleep, she turns her head to nuzzle her way in for a kiss. Her lips barely brush his, parted, body rolling to meet his, and he moves quickly when the movement parts her legs. _Oh, gravity is beautiful,_ he thinks as her hips level out in the bed, pulling one bent knee along with the rest of her body until her legs open like a book to the fingers already searching her out again. _You are a good girl,_ he’d like to tease her, but he settles for a silent chuckle while pushing her gently open with one finger and dipping another inside of her, slow and shallow and attentive while the heat works up inside of her. He still can’t get to her breasts, thanks to the way she’s rolled, leaving her arm crossed straight over her chest, but making do with what he has isn’t so bad, considering those parted lips and the searching tongue. His own tongue flicks against hers as he gently explores her mouth, nibbling and sucking her lip while coaxing her slick and hot. One whole finger, then two, easing in and out of her again, pressing fingertips into her front wall each time.

When fire builds, her hips buckle and she groans past his mouth. Her shoulder, too, finally falls all the way level when, chin pushing upward, back arching, she gropes at her own chest with one hand. While his fingers move deep into her, her own stimulate a nipple through her silky nightshirt. Then her other hand moves into action, and he chuckles bemusedly when she snakes it down to join his, fingers pushing below his palm, towards her wet center, teasing heat toward her clit. He’s half tempted to let her run with it, but he keeps that wake-up-call-appropriate pressure on her, not bothering to keep her from a speedy buildup this morning while she moves her hips and hands in time with him.

She does come quickly enough. Her eyes flicker open in sleepy surprise, and she tilts her head down towards him sighing an ‘ _oh_ ’ of pleasure.

“Helen,” he scolds immediately, drawing his hand and hers out of her clothes and examining her two soaked fingers thoughtfully. “You caused me a lot of trouble, going to bed like this.”

“You didn’t really expect me to sleep in the buff just because I suspected you might be here in the morning, did you?” she asks in weary disbelief. The next question comes in the form of a movement of her hand.

“Mm. As it turns out, you’re quite a naughty, impatient little thing, even when you’re sleeping. Your wet dreams, however, are very hot. Who knew?”

“Neither of those are synonyms for domestic,” she notes, watching him as he pointedly drops her hand, but sucks her off of his own.

“They’re not, are they,” he says cockily, moving up her body and cupping her cheek in his hand. “But you know, there was something rather like this in there… about the time you opened your legs for me.”

And his mouth is on hers, softly, so softly, tongue easing past her teeth, toying with her lips, breath hot on hers while she shivers and kisses him back. Not long enough.

“So what was that all about?” he asks to finish the question, lips still hovering tantalizingly close to hers.

“I... wouldn’t know,” she stammers, breath caught up in her lungs while her eyes search his, then examine his mouth. Then, equally breathlessly: “Do it again.”

“Oh, no, Helen. I’m afraid I’ve finished my duties here. A pleasant, effective wake-up call is more than you could demand of most people, you know. Good morning.”

“Nik—” She sighs, and strips on her way to the shower.

* * *

She’s going to wake up with those silly pants of hers around her ankles. He’s going to put them there for her. Her nightshirt’s going to be open. She’ll wake in pools of silk that had properly blanketed her hours before, and she’s going to wonder what the hell happened, because he’s already determined that he’s going to pleasure her and flee. He needs a good challenge, and he’s curious. Call it an experiment; part of him wants to know if she’ll ever broach the subject when she remembers it was she who placed the note in front of him, she who raised her eyebrows and turned one corner of her mouth a fraction of an inch upward, she who passed a feather-light touch across the small of his back in passing. He’s going to breeze his way past those ridiculous nightclothes of hers, pleasure her, and leave her to fantasize about precisely what he’d done with his mouth and hands.

But he’s not going to infiltrate the drawstrings and buttons and swaths of fabric. He’s not even going to sneak in past the comforters she so likes to huddle up under no matter the temperature. He’s not going to do any of this, because Helen Magnus is sleeping flat on her back in that spectacularly gaudy blue housecoat of hers.

Oh.

Well, barring the fact that she’s prepared for him this time, this probably means that she didn’t go to bed until two or three as it is; two and three hours isn’t a large period of time for someone to call on her with the _emergency du jour_. Emergency de la nuit? This could be a good thing or a bad thing, and hell, it might not matter at all; Nikola doesn’t really pretend to know how different sleep schedules affect her, precisely. He’s just here for the ride, after all.

Er. Bad metaphor. Oh well.

He crosses to the bed grinning like a rich kid on Christmas morning, and sure enough, when he pulls the knot easily out of her robe’s belt with one gentle tug, she’s there in all her naked glory. Except—oh dear, she’s left him a little gift. The most delightful little lacy pair of panties he’s ever seen. He shouldn’t really call them ‘little’, he supposes, considering all the skimpy numbers that don’t really classify as panties at all he’s seen out there, usually on the petite little things who never really suited his fancy. Oh, Helen’s modest and proper even in her immodesty, and they’re so delightfully suiting he has to give himself a moment to examine her in them, going so far as to bend to see how they curve over her hip.

When and how he became an underwear connoisseur is as far beyond him as Helen’s moods, but by the time he’s done, her nipples are already pert from the slight chill in the air. 

He warms all of her with his hands and mouth and body, breathing and caressing heat into her cool flesh, reveling in the familiar whimpers of want that accompany this early-morning ritual. His palms soothe her breasts while he lavishes kisses across her belly, and then the kisses follow in the wake of her underwear as he lifts her hips and eases them down her legs and off, trailing the slow, purposeful kisses up the length of her legs again. Her knee, he pulls it up closer to her chest, grazing teeth and tongue and lips against her inner thigh before dropping his mouth to her abdomen again and gently massaging his fingertips into her thigh.

This morning, he brings her to the brink with his thumb massaging gentle patterns across her clit, his hand caressing her thigh, and his tongue pressing deep into her navel, and all his plans have gone out the window, because of the way she’s dressed and the way she strokes his head and tangles her fingers into her hair when she rides her orgasm, and in the delicate sigh as the muscles in her body relax again.

He can’t resist kissing her mouth in parting, can’t resist swallowing her panted breaths, but her hand moves into more focused action when he does, and he knows that she’s awake again.

“Good morning,” he very nearly whispers, a breath on her mouth, before pushing himself up and away, but her hand stops him, fingers trailing across his cheek, dropping to curl around his upper arm.

“Don’t go,” she says.

He raises his brows, a little surprised at the change of pace. “Whyever not?”

“Hotel staff get paid, don’t they?”

“Helen! I’m no prostitute,” he chides pleasantly, grinning at her.

She arches one brow at him, but rolls him easily to his back. He sure as hell isn’t resisting her, certainly not when he’s so aware of his own want, his own need. He needs to get out of here and get rid of this boner. He needs…

“Helen?”

She’s a bird. She’s a goddamned bird with blue silk wings and she’s straddling him with her hands in her messy curls, smiling lazily down at him while she gathers her hair in her hands and moves against him just a little. “This isn’t a hotel, either.”

“No fistful of money then?”

She jerks her head at him and hums a little one-note laugh, dry-humping the tent in his trousers with the same sleepy smile. Her hands slide out of her hair, down her neck, to her chest—whether it’s because she’s too tired to care or because she knows he likes it when she touches herself isn’t entirely clear.

He’s groaning though, fingers outstretching on her knees, nails biting into her thighs, and she gasps a little, sparing one hand to play with the button of his slacks, then the other to help with the zipper. Oh, and he sure as hell isn’t stopping her. In fact, he’s planning to lay here and watch her, in all her winged glory, and—and…

Oh, no. She’s his, now. He lasts just long enough to watch her head loll from one side to the other in a languid backward roll while her body drinks him in, and then he sits up, because really, he wants his mouth locked on hers and her arms around his shoulders and his hands on all of her. The urge to watch is strong, sure, but the want to hold her is stronger still, and he finds his hand cupped behind her neck, his tongue pressing its way into her mouth, in a bare moment. She tastes good, feels better. He groans into her neck and remembers the bad wine again, praying it’ll last longer, because damn everything else in the world, but she’s strung her arms around his neck and she’s bending to kiss whatever parts of his face and head her lips land on, a quiet little moan laced on every other breath while she takes him in.

She’s his. Except he can’t help but wonder if what’s really happening here is that he’s becoming hers. Maybe he always was. He’s not at her whim, now, like he was in her office not so many weeks ago though. Instead, he’s opening himself up to her, and she, in turn, bares herself to him. When she captures his mouth, he knows that she is doing this, because her very lips quiver with the want she’s disguised under a playful shell. She moves so slowly, it’s almost not conducive to sex, but like hell it isn’t, because every easy, purposeful movement of her body with all of her locked tight around him makes him groan agonizingly into her mouth, her neck, her breasts, and the lazy, pleasant grin stays there, quirking at her lips.

He can’t possibly last long like this, not this morning, but when he groans his release into her breasts, she follows suit, walls clenching around him as she clings to his shoulders. She moans against him, leaning in, then gives him a little push. It’s enough to put him on his back in the bed again without complaint, but it doesn’t prepare him for the way Helen curls against his side, cheek on his chest, fingers tracing the ever-cool skin beneath the hem of his shirt.

“You feel good,” she mumbles absently while her fingers float across his abdomen, breath warm against his neck when she tilts her chin to kiss him again.

“You’re becoming quite the little junkie, aren’t you?” he inquires with a chuckle, fingers curling into her hair.

“What, you?” she asks noncommittally, lips perpetually curved into that same lackadaisical smile. “You’re dreaming, Nikola.”

“Well. It’s a good dream, anyway.” There’s something decidedly husky about his voice this time, and he glances down her body, gliding the backs of his fingers down her chest with a self-satisfied smirk. “You’re _insanely_ hot,” he stresses, because he thinks her guard is down. Then: “Beautiful, really.”

Helen Magnus is horny as hell this morning, but he also thinks it’s about more than just sex. He’s conceited and all, sure, but there’s something decidedly different about her, and he’s playing right along without thinking twice. It helps that he’s certain he loves her.

She lifts herself onto her hands and knees again without responding to his assertion, but leans down to kiss him, and still he does not resist her advances, because the urge to touch her, to be with her, is far too strong, and because suddenly it’s not just about getting Helen off and getting off himself—not that there was ever _nothing_ behind that. Still, they’ve had their little forays before, and it’s taken an accusation of being domestic and a quick and dirty fingering job behind her desk to lead to a touch that means something. He’s fascinated, but moreover, he’s enchanted, and though he won’t admit it to anyone, himself least of all, he might even be elated. His fingers search her sides while her lips play delicate little patterns against his. Harder than when she’d awakened to his advances the last time, but with more focused want, and with something warmer in the ebb and flow of her movements, of her teeth and tongue and lips.

He moves one of his hands to her neck. She dives deep into his mouth, and withdraws with his name on her lips. But he rocks her back into his lap again as he sits up once more, one hand molding over a breast as he asks: “One more?”

There’s something entirely different in the way her fingers slide over his, stroking the back of his hand, and in the way she leans forward to kiss just his lower lip. He doesn’t react at first, but his lips are already parted, and she pushes his teeth apart with her mouth. “ _Yes_ ,” is a breath from her lungs to his.

He doesn’t fuck her. He doesn’t pleasure her. This time, he makes love to her: rolls her onto her back, holding her knee like he plans to put himself inside of her again, though god knows he’s not ready for that. But he’s just kissing her, and Helen’s no longer guiding the action; rather, she’s sunk back into a cooperation so elegant he supposes he’ll probably never grow tired of being propped up on that elbow above her, exploring her mouth like he’s explored her body dozens of times, but with a new, relaxed sort of vigor.

She rocks her hips up once, gently, knee bending to brush his thigh, to remind him that there’s a fire in her belly that must be fed before it can be extinguished.

His hand is on her breast again, supple flesh molding gently under his fingertips while a trail of kisses leads from her chin to the other. The trail commences again when both nipples are taught, pausing at her stomach, kissing the roiling flesh, then down, down. Both her knees bend upward for him, and he kisses her there like he’d kiss her mouth: warm and focused and with his eyes locked on hers.

She’s never watched before, never met the eyes of the individual pleasuring her in such an intimate way. She hadn’t even looked at John—had been too young and too naive to do more than giggle awkwardly at him under the sheets until she was too far lost in ecstasy to be embarrassed. Now with her eyes on Nikola, despite that he’s seen and fucked her from most every angle she can think of (and in various states of wakefulness as well as undress), she feels more naked, more exposed, than she’s ever felt even her first time, stripping down to a body no man had seen in full-blossomed womanhood. John had been there then, with his hands and his mouth and his breath and all of his being encompassing all of her, and she’d locked her eyes on his a hundred times while making love, but she’d never looked at him when he’d been in Nikola’s position.

She watches now, fascinated by the intent in his gaze while his tongue moves inside of her, and although he soon lowers his eyes to divert his attention to her, to all of her, her eyes remain on him. Her fingers curl into his hair, and she pushes herself up just a little on one elbow, belly heaving.

He doesn’t need special tricks and he doesn’t need to tease her; first it’s her hips moving in tandem with him, and then she’s lost the ability to hold herself up on her elbow. She puts both hands in his hair instead, and her breath comes in time with the movement of her hips, each exhale edged with pitchy pleasure. “Ah, Nikola,” she groans somewhere in the bare moments before the pressure he knows throws her over the edge. Her back arches, a thousand notes shatter in her throat, and he is at her side long before her body’s come under control again.

“Nik—Nikola,” she mumbles, facing him with her knees still bent, parted, eyes watching his.

“I did say one more, didn’t I?” he asks, and although his mouth curves into a trademark grin, he cups her behind the neck and kisses her with as much sincerity as she can hope for from any man. “Helen?”

“Hmm?”

“We’ve long surpassed wake-up call requirements, don’t you think?” His eyes are on her legs though while his fingers trace her still-bent knee.

“I do.”

“And we both have so much to do.”

“That’s also true,” she murmurs, tilting her head around and leaning into him.

“So.”

“So?”

He frowns chidingly at her, tilting her chin upward and examining her face. And she laughs—a real laugh, one that could, maybe, possibly, be defined as a charming giggle, a vestige of a Helen long gone, or long in hiding.

“Get to work, young lady,” he finally settles for, scolding all the way as he wiggles his way out from beneath her, meeting minimal resistance, though she follows him with her eyes as he puts his clothes back in order. “God knows you’ve got plenty of it. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Of course,” she musters, pushing bangs away from her brow as he strides for the door, turning back once to examine her where she lies—on her back again, knees still bent, robe still floating open around her. Keep this one in your memory, Nikola, because _damn._

He grins. “Good girl.”


End file.
